


One Day

by Polomonkey



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Childhood Sexual Abuse, Healing, M/M, Non-Explicit, Recovery, Self-Harm, Support Groups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:32:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5420666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polomonkey/pseuds/Polomonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur meets Merlin outside a support group.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Day

**Author's Note:**

> I've been doing an [AU fic meme](http://thepolomonkey.tumblr.com/post/134552087067/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-ill-write-a-short) on tumblr and 'meeting at a support group au' was one of the asks. Hope you like this anon. Also fills my 'counselling' square on h/c bingo.
> 
> There is no explicit discussion of sexual abuse in this fic but obviously it still could be triggering; as well as the self-harming behaviours described.

It takes a long time for Arthur to even type the words into Google, and after he deletes his internet history in a panic. But he’s memorised all the details. St Hilda’s Church. 7pm. Every other Tuesday.

It’s all the way across London, there’s little chance he’ll see anyone he knows there; but it takes five more months for Arthur to pluck up the courage to go.

He’s not sure he’s got the right place when he arrives, the people going inside as he watches from the car seem so… normal. It looks more like a PTA meeting than anything else. Suddenly anxious he’s mistaken, Arthur gets out of the car and sidles up to the entrance. There’s a dark haired man fiddling with a sign outside and Arthur draws close enough to read it.

‘CSA Survivors’ is the heading, followed by an instruction to enter through the double doors. And then finally, at the bottom, a caption: ‘Support group for survivors of childhood sexual abuse’.

Arthur’s stomach tightens. He’s in the right place.

He hovers for a few seconds, staring at the words until he’s sure they’ve burned themselves into his retinas. Then he turns to leave.

He’s halfway across the car park when he hears a voice behind him.

“Hey!”

He spins to see the dark haired man is hurrying towards him.

“Sorry I just… if you want someone to go in there with you?”

“No,” Arthur snaps, fists already clenched. If this man dares to try and pressure him, Arthur won’t be responsible for how he responds. 

But the man throws his hands up apologetically.

“That’s fine. Just wanted to check.”

Arthur feels a bit guilty then, adrenaline rushing out of him as fast as it had come. The man was only trying to help.

“Maybe next time,” he mutters and the man nods.

“We’ll be in the same place.”

There’s a silence. The conversation seems like it’s over but the man doesn’t walk away. 

“Don’t you have to get back in there?” Arthur says at last.

“S’ok, I’m not hosting this week,” the man says. “We take it in turns to host, you see. That way no-one’s in charge.”

“Does everyone have to host?” Arthur says, thinking he was right not to go in. He doesn’t need that kind of stress.

“Oh no,” the man says quickly. “Only if you volunteer. You don’t have to do anything in the group.”

“Except speak,” Arthur says.

“Not even that, if you don’t want.”

“Really?”

The man shrugs.

“We’ve had a guy coming for over a year now who’s never said a word outside of hello and goodbye. Some people speak in one session and not in the next. Some speak every time. It’s all fine.”

“How often do you speak?” Arthur says, vaguely curious for some reason.

“Pretty much always, nowadays. But I didn’t for the first five sessions, I think.”

Arthur nods, licks his dry lips. The man regards him for a second.

“A lot of us were told to keep it a secret,” he says, his voice perfectly even. “When it happened, I mean. Told we’d get in trouble, told not to talk about it. Now… I want to talk about it.”

Arthur feels paralysed by that little word ‘it’; totally innocuous to any passer-by, but loaded with vicious weight for his ears. Part of him wants to walk away but part of him wants to stay a moment longer, because this is the closest he’s come to acknowledging his past in years.

The man seems to sense his internal conflict.

“Not everyone wants to talk though,” he says gently. “We’re all different.”

Arthur swallows, takes a few deep breaths.

“I can’t go in there,” he mumbles.

“I know,” the man says. “It’s alright.”

Silence. Again, it’s an opportunity for Arthur to leave. Again, he doesn’t take it. 

“My name’s Arthur,” he says instead, voice raspy.

“I’m Merlin,” the man says. “Do you want to go to that café over there for a bit, Arthur?”

He gestures across the road to a little greasy spoon. Arthur follows his gaze and his heart begins to hammer.

“You don’t have to,” Merlin says. “No pressure.”

Arthur’s hand creeps towards his head and he forces it back down again.

“Yes,” he says.

 

***

 

The café is warm; too warm. Arthur wishes his hat wasn’t so woolly, but he can’t take it off now. 

Merlin goes to order for them. Arthur asks for a tea and then debates whether or not to walk out the whole time Merlin’s in the queue. He stays in the end, and nods his thanks when Merlin sits back down.

“I asked for a latte and he looked at me like I was the worst kind of north London ponce,” Merlin says, grinning. “I was curtly informed it was instant or nothing.”

“This place is a one-off,” Arthur manages to get out.

“Yeah. The last bastion standing against gentrification. You’ll have your instant coffee and your eggs and spam, and you’ll bloody well like it.”

Arthur can’t think of a response but Merlin doesn’t seem to mind.

“He was right about the ponce part but technically I’m from Wales. Pretty sure lattes haven’t reached the village I grew up in either.”

He grabs a sugar packet and dumps it in his cup.

“Still, £1.20 for two drinks? Can’t say fairer than that. The rest of London should take note.”

Arthur watches Merlin stir his coffee, and feels the usual prickle down his spine. It’s not a full blown flashback, nothing even close, it’s just… a little twinge. Arthur never ceases to be amazed by the things that lie dormant for years and resurface one day, triggered by the tiniest of things; and suddenly he’s a nine year old boy being offered coffee by a grown up, thrilled to be allowed a taste of something so adult, easily persuaded to go one step further.

It’s a familiar thought, the thought that it’s all his fault, that she could sense the desire to be adult on him, that he laid himself open to be taken advantage of. Arthur grounds himself with a gulp of hot tea, the pain in his mouth a welcome distraction. When he looks up Merlin’s watching him.

“Please don’t be worried, Arthur,” he says quietly. “I’m not going to make you talk about anything.”

Arthur thinks about this for a while.

“I want to talk,” he says haltingly. “I think I must, or I wouldn’t have come tonight. But…”

“It’s hard,” Merlin finishes for him. “I know. It is. You should go at your own pace.”

He smiles warmly and Arthur doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this kindness.

“I’m making you miss the meeting,” he says thickly.

Merlin waves his hand.

“It’s fine. There’ll be others. I’d rather be here.”

And then he changes the subject and begins to talk.

Merlin’s good at talking, if such a thing is possible. Arthur can’t really say much but Merlin doesn’t seem to mind. He chatters on about various topics, all of them trivial; music, television, London house prices. He tells Arthur about his roommates, about his cat, about the village he grew up in. Very occasionally he asks Arthur questions in return but they’re all easy things to answer: what films he seen recently, his favourite tube line, whether he prefers dogs or cats. He doesn’t ask where Arthur lives, or what he does for a living, or anything else that would make Arthur clam up for fear that the events of this night will follow him home and intrude on his everyday life.

In other words, he does his best to put Arthur at ease. It doesn’t quite work, the situation’s too strange for that, but Arthur does relax a bit. Enough for some of the rigid tension to drain away, enough so that he can get into the conversation a little.

At some point Arthur relaxes enough to pulls his hat off. Then he remembers the bald spot just above his left ear, made last week when he couldn’t stop pulling and pulling and a whole chunk of hair had come out in his hand. He’d cried like a child when he saw it, loud and frightened; just as Morgana did aged seven when she cut too much hair from her favourite doll.

If Merlin sees, he doesn’t say anything about it. But Arthur’s on edge after that. It’d be too obvious to put the hat back on now but he can’t help turning his head to the side, hoping Merlin can’t see, hoping he doesn’t know what’s going on.

He’s so consumed by this worry that he stops listening to what Merlin’s actually saying. He only tunes back in when he notices Merlin’s voice has faltered slightly. And he realises with a sudden jolt of horror that he’s doing it again, that his hand has crept up to his hair without him even noticing and he’s been tugging on it for God knows how long.

He pulls his hat back on and stares at the table, feeling his face redden.

“Sorry,” he says miserably, humiliation bubbling up inside of him.

“It’s fine,” Merlin says, but Arthur can’t meet his eyes.

“Arthur,” Merlin says. “It’s really fine.”

Arthur still doesn’t look up, hands twisted in his lap.

Merlin sighs.

“I used to scratch myself,” he says. “I used to scratch my arms and chest until they were bleeding. It hurt to wear clothes for days after. And they got infected a couple of times. I carried on scratching the infected scabs, I couldn’t even stop then.”

Arthur peeks up, tentatively.

“When you were little?”

“Up until last year,” Merlin says.

Arthur gnaws on his lip, digesting this.

“How did you stop?”

Merlin smiles wryly.

“Lots of therapy. Some medication. And I wear gloves in bed now. Sometimes I wear them round the house too, if I’m feeling low.”

Arthur meets his gaze properly. 

“My sister knitted me this hat,” he admits. “I wear a baseball cap in the summer.”

“Does it help?”

“It stops me doing it unconsciously. But if I want to do it…”

“You can just take the hat off,” Merlin says, and gives him a sad smile. “There’s the rub.”

“Yeah.”

They’re both quiet for a moment.

“My sister…” Arthur says, then stops for a moment. “I want to tell my sister, sometimes.”

Merlin nods, waits for Arthur to continue.

“I tried. Recently. But I can’t… I can’t get the words out. So, tonight. I thought. I thought I could practice.”

Merlin rests his chin in his hands.

“You can practice on me. If you want.”

Arthur looks up at him and looks down again. Opens his mouth, wets his lips. Takes a sip of cold tea.

“I can’t,” he chokes out.

Merlin looks as calm as ever.

“Then don’t. Don’t force yourself.”

“But I really want to,” Arthur says, and it comes out like a plea.

“The first time I spoke in group, I only said two words. It was literally all I could say and then my voice gave out. But the host just nodded at me and moved on. Nobody minded. Half of them had been where I was before. They knew it took time.”

Tears are pricking the back of Arthur’s eyes.

“What two words did you say?”

“My uncle,” Merlin says simply.

Arthur looks at Merlin’s gentle face and tries to imagine him scratching himself until he bled, or choking over his words in a cold church hall. Then he tries to imagine himself in that same church hall, sharing his story, talking about things he’s never said out loud before. Sitting down with his sister, telling her the truth at last.

His hands are itching to creep back into his hair. He puts them on the table instead and clears his throat.

“My babysitter,” he says. 

Merlin nods.

“Okay,” he says, and he gives Arthur’s hand a little pat.

It’s not okay, and it probably won’t be, not for a long time. 

But one day, Arthur thinks. Maybe one day.


End file.
